


Just Like You, Only Worse

by bethfrish



Category: American Psycho - All Media Types, House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-01
Updated: 2005-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:09:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2467799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethfrish/pseuds/bethfrish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Count on Julie to fill your house with assholes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like You, Only Worse

Julie throws more parties than the Unitarian church down the street from your house. Sometimes they're the lady friends she goes out to lunch with, other times they're members of the social circle she thinks the both of you are still a part of. Either way, your house is full of people you don't give a shit about, eating your food and prowling through the cabinets in your bathroom. You know about the cabinets because once you left one of Julie's loose hairs stuck in the hinge, and when you checked on it later after everyone had left, it was gone. Maybe it just fell out on its own, but you saw Cheryl walk out of there around 9:30 like she knew that Julie uses three different brands of sleeping pills. You told Julie never to invite that bitch again. 

This one's a work party. Julie's work, naturally. Pompous assholes with their anorexic wives, or their anorexic girlfriends, or some other piece of ass that's got some other equally repulsive problem. Julie's not as high up as a lot of the people peeing all over your toilet seat, but she's got a nice figure, a nice attitude, and the men at the top don't mind stopping by the seventeenth floor if it's to schmooze with someone like your wife. 

Julie tends to ignore you during these types of things. Not that she doesn't ignore you when you're at home by yourselves eating grilled salmon that got a little too burnt because you came home and distracted her, but she adds a little spice to just plain ignoring you by talking about you with other people as if you're a mentally retarded seven-year-old. So you just float around in the background with your watered-down scotch on the rocks, trying out different varieties of phony laughter. You like the constipated guffaw yourself, but people seem to get nervous when you do that so you abandon it in favor of the cringing chuckle. 

The only time Julie doesn't forget you exist is if you try and sneak up to the bedroom, maybe to try and blow your brains out. Not really, because you don't own a gun, but you'd bet that even if you did, Julie'd grab your arm and drag you back down to the fun before you'd even have a chance to cock it. 

Right now the wife's talking with some jackass who looks like he makes what your car is worth before lunch every morning. Pretty tall, probably works out, uses too much hair gel. You think those all must be prerequisites for being an asshole. This guy's got the schmoozing so refined all he has to do is stand there and flash his perfect, white teeth. Julie laughs this horrible, fakey laugh after every third sentence, and even though you lost interest in the stuff between her legs about a year ago, you look at the way his hand is on the small of her back and decide that you don't like this guy. 

You just stand in the corner for a while, watching your wife verbally suck his dick. This one guy who can never remember your name and always calls you Steve comes over and tries to make conversation, but he's blocking most of your view so you tell you him that you lost your last seventeen cancer patients in order to get him to go away. He says something completely inane like, "Gee golly, that's too bad," so you give up on trying to be subtle and just tell him to fuck off. You're not really drunk enough to say something like that without at least a little remorse, but he doesn't know that. 

Now Mr. Universe is leaning over to whisper something in Julie's ear. She giggles like a cheerleader who isn't wearing anything underneath her skirt, and puts her lips up by his cheek to whisper something back. Then they start to head off somewhere, probably towards the back door. You and Julie have this truly kickass back porch, with a swing that's sturdy enough for even the most violent of blowjobs. Not that you've gotten one lately. 

She sees you there in your corner as Apollo's leading her away. You wave to them. That's all it takes, you being there, and Julie makes some excuse before drifting away into the living room. Except, now he's coming your way. 

"Hey there, friend," he says, extending a hand. "I don't believe we've been formally introduced. I'm Patrick. Patrick Bateman." 

"James." 

Up close, his teeth are a little crooked. For some reason that makes you even angrier. 

"You've got a lovely home," Bateman says, looking around like he's at the Louvre. "Just lovely." 

"Yeah, thanks." 

"Your wife was just about to show me your backyard. I hear you have tulips." 

Who the hell is this guy? You just stare at him. 

"So how long have you and Julie been married?" Bateman asks conversationally, like he wasn't just about to shove his cock down your wife's throat. 

"Four years." You turn around and dump your scotch in your own potted plant. "Why don't you come outside. I'll show you the tulips." You have no idea why you said that to someone who can clearly beat the shit out of you. You guess you're just feeling stupid tonight. 

Bateman flashes his teeth at you. "That'd be fabulous." 

You show him out the back door, closing it behind you so the rest of Julie's guests know they're not invited to your special party. You don't actually show him any tulips. Mostly because it's too dark to see them, but also because both of you know that's not why you're out here. You sit on the swing of all places, rocking it gently with the force of your combined weight. You feel like you're in high school, on a date with some thirty-something-year-old business exec. 

"Nice swing," Bateman says, rocking it with his foot. 

"It was made by the Amish." 

"Really?" 

"Yeah." You rock it a little with your foot too. 

"I like the Amish a whole lot," Bateman says, looking out at the stars. "They're a neat people." 

"You can't just seduce my wife," you tell him. 

Bateman doesn't say anything for a good forty-five seconds. "I wasn't going to seduce her." 

This makes less sense than that jerk who put his fist through one of your speakers at Julie's last party. "No?" 

"Uh uh. I was actually going to murder her. See, I have this very quiet chainsaw in my car that does a real fine job with bone. A real bargain at the hardware store. So anyway, I was going to go out to my trunk under the pretense of getting some files she needed." 

"Wait." You stop the swing with your foot. "You were going to murder her?" 

"Oh yes." Bateman laughs. Maybe even guffaws. "Normally I don't share my plans with other people, but I didn't want you to think I was just trying to get her to suck my dick. I'd thought about it. But sometimes you're just not in the mood." 

His hand is still on your shoulder. You turn sideways. That's a nice tie Bateman's got on. You think you have one just like it upstairs in your closet. 

"You say this chainsaw is in your trunk?" 

"Tucked away under a beach towel." Bateman moves his hand down to pat your thigh. "Looks like those hedges need some trimming. You want to borrow it? Won't wake the neighbors in the morning. God, I used to hate when assholes would do their yardwork in the morning." 

You look down at his hand on your leg and nod. "I'll get it back to you by Thursday." 

"No rush, James. No rush. I like you. You take all the time you want." 

The people inside are spilling vodka on your furniture and your wife is trying to force-feed tiny squares of tiramisu to all the women that are skinnier than her. You think Bateman might be tracing circles on your thigh with the blade of a knife, but when you look down, it's only the cap of one of those fancy pens they give away to company VPs for free. 


End file.
